“I think I should survive Mrs Boyce.”

“Ah, yes; because we should have to go and tell her.  I know your cowardice of old, mamma; don’t I?  And Bell wouldn’t care a bit, because of her lover.  Mrs Boyce will be nothing to her.  It is I that must bear it all.  Well, I don’t mind; I’ll vote for staying if you will promise to be happy here.  Oh, mamma, I’ll vote for anything if you will be happy.”

“And will you be happy?”

“Yes, as happy as the day is long.  Only I know we shall never see Bell.  People never do see each other when they live just at that distance.  It’s too near for long visits, and too far for short visits.  I’ll tell you what; we might make arrangements each to walk half-way, and meet at the corner of Lord De Guest’s wood.  I wonder whether they’d let us put up a seat there.  I think we might have a little house and carry sandwiches and a bottle of beer.  Couldn’t we see something of each other in that way?”

Thus it came to be the fixed idea of both of them that they would abandon their plan of migrating to Guestwick, and on this subject they continued to talk over their tea-table; but on that evening Mrs Dale ventured to say nothing about John Eames.

But they did not even yet dare to commence the work of reconstructing their old home.  Bell must come back before they would do that, and the express assent of the squire must be formally obtained.  Mrs Dale must, in a degree, acknowledge herself to have been wrong, and ask to be forgiven for her contumacy.

“I suppose the three of us had better go up in sackcloth, and throw ashes on our foreheads as we meet Hopkins in the garden,” said Lily, “and then I know he’ll heap coals of fire on our heads by sending us an early dish of peas.  And Dingles would bring us in a pheasant, only that pheasants don’t grow in May.”

“If the sackcloth doesn’t take an unpleasanter shape than that, I shan’t mind it.”

“That’s because you’ve got no delicate feelings.  And then Uncle Christopher’s gratitude!”

“Ah!  I shall feel that.”

“But, mamma, we’ll wait till Bell comes home.  She shall decide.  She is going away, and therefore she’ll be free from prejudice.  If uncle offers to paint the house,—­and I know he will,—­then I shall be humbled to the dust.”

But yet Mrs Dale had said nothing on the subject which was nearest to her heart.  When Lily in pleasantry had accused her of cowardice, her mind had instantly gone off to that other matter, and she had told herself that she was a coward.  Why should she be afraid of offering her counsel to her own child?  It seemed to her as though she had neglected some duty in allowing Crosbie’s conduct to have passed away without hardly a word of comment on it between herself and Lily.  Should she not have forced upon her daughter’s conviction the fact that Crosbie had been a villain, and as such should be discarded from her heart?  As it was, Lily had spoken the simple truth when she told John Eames that she was dealing more openly with him on that affair of her engagement than she had ever dealt, even with her mother.  Thinking of this as she sat in her own room that night, before she allowed herself to rest, Mrs Dale resolved that on the next morning she would endeavour to make Lily see as she saw and think as she thought.